Killed by Death

3 Jan

Ace of Spades

In case you missed it, Ian ‘Lemmy’ Kilmister of Motorhead fame passed away over Christmas.  The title of this piece is a reference to a song he once wrote, which is both ridiculous yet sublime.  I should start by saying that I’m not a massive Motorhead fan.  Ace of Spades – terrific song.  It throws open the saloon doors, strides in with menacing purpose, grabs you by the throat, drinks all your whiskey, smashes up the tables and leaves.  You can’t ask for much more.  Why am I not a fan?  Back in the early 80s, Motorhead played the Northern town in which I grew up.  We’d heard that they were the loudest band on the planet, so two of my pals John & Pil decided to have a competition – who could get the closest to the speaker stacks and lose their hearing for the longest.  Pil won.  He was so proud of the ringing in his ears, which lasted for three and a half days.  That was when I knew Motorhead were not the band for me.

LemmyI spent most of the early 90s hanging about the London rock and metal scene, watching as many bands as I could, going to backstage parties, studiously avoiding the gruff northern git in the cowboy hat, who by that time had grown a splendid pair of warts.  Nowadays, no self-respecting performer would do that – they’d be straight down the surgeon’s with a writ from their agent for their removal.   Not Lemmy.  He proudly announced they were a part of him, there to stay.  For my part, I have a bit of a wart phobia, caused by one of my school teachers, who had a very prominent pink growth on the knuckle of his index finger.  If you were naughty, he’d grab you by the nose and thrust his wart threateningly close to your eye, much to the revulsion of the entire class and the abject horror of his victim.  He did it to me once for late homework, and I never got over it.  Hence meeting Lemmy was a no-no, even though it was relatively easy, him being such an approachable guy at the bar.  Over the years, I’ve been to countless festivals where Motorhead were on the bill.  Every time I found someone else to see, to the point where it’s become a standing joke.  After 35 years of going to gigs, I’m still a Motorhead virgin.  I always assumed that at some point I’d accidentally run into them, they’d nick my cherry, make my ears bleed and I’d come to hours later in a dumpster, in a back alley, sore and battered, smelling of JD and coke.

That’s no longer going to happen.

lemmy heavenIt’s a week since Lemmy passed away and I find I’m still delving into his legacy.  For a bloke that I spent many years deliberately avoiding, where on occasion it would have been easier to run into him, he hasn’t half had an effect on my thoughts.  I’m sure it comes down to an uncompromising attitude and a determination to do things his way.   In an era of oh-so-safe homogenised pop bands with spray-on lego hair. waxed brow lines and perfectly managed, sugar-coated content-free interviews, he stands out a mile.  He had character; he lived a dozen lives in one lifetime; he was surrounded by a gang of loyal die-hard fans who he regarded as his family.  He had no time for political niceties, he told it as it was.  Coming from a Northern fishing town, I grew up with people like this: grizzled, hard drinking fishermen, all with tales to tell.  That industry is dead now, the characters long gone.  They don’t make real men like that any more, except maybe in Alaska and Siberia.  Lemmy was cast in a day when the rock and roll foundry made them one at a time, with rough edges intact.  Today, they mass produce acts using cookie cutters and a strict formula.

In closing, I’m reminded of the film/documentary ‘Lemmy’, where one of the interviewees states: “When the nuclear holocaust comes, all that will be left will be cockroaches and Lemmy.”  Sadly, he was wrong.  Like many others, I’m still in shock.  I thought Lemmy would go on forever and I’d finally get to see him perform on my 100th birthday.

RIP you rock and roll legend.

You did it your way.

 

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